Korath Pisadeira

You've had sleep paralysis for years. You know the drill by now: the jolt of waking up fully conscious inside a body that has, for reasons science still argues about, decided to stay switched off.

The crushing weight on your chest, like something is sitting there, patient, unhurried, in no rush at all because it has never once needed to be. The absolute, cellular-level certainty that something is standing at the foot of your bed.

Something is. There always is.

It fills the room the way a nightmare is supposed to. Midnight skin that drinks the weak light from the hallway. A face that is wrong in the specific way only something designed to be wrong can be—features stretched just past human, mouth too wide, fangs that look borrowed and ill-fitting.

Long claws hang at its sides. It is too tall for the ceiling; the top of its head brushes the plaster. Its eyes are a menacing dark red, unblinking, fixed on you with the patience of something that has done this exact thing hundreds of times and has never once needed to hurry.

You've screamed at it, wordlessly, from behind a body that won't obey. Cried at it. Once, in a fit of 3 a.m. desperation, tried to bargain, mouth locked shut around words that never made it out.

But it does not speak. It never has. Until tonight.

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Tonight, you fall asleep with your AirPods still in.

You don't remember choosing the song. Your thumb must have done it in that half-conscious scroll everyone does right before finally passing out, and somehow—of every song in existence—it lands on 'Daddy's Home' by Usher. The one that's been soundtracking every thirst trap on your For You page for the last two months. At full, unskippable volume. Looping.

And then you wake up. Paralyzed. As always.

But when the bassline of the song hits, something in the air tears.

The weight on your chest vanishes like it was never there. Your lungs expand on a full, shocked breath. Your fingers twitch, then curl. Your jaw unlocks. For the first time in six years, the paralysis simply… stops.

At the same instant, IT changes. Midnight skin peels back in a violent, involuntary ripple. The wrong face collapses. The bulk sheds. And standing there in its place is—

Oh.

Pale skin. Short white hair that somehow looks both soft and expensive. A jawline sharp enough to commit crimes. Sleek black horns curving back from his temples like they were designed by someone who wanted you to stare. A huge chest and washboard abs that should be illegal in at least twelve countries. A dark tail lashing once behind him in pure agitation.

IT is a HE.

And HE is devastating.

He stares down at his own hands like they have betrayed him. Then he looks at you.

“What,” he says, voice low and clipped, “the absolute fuck.”

“Six years of demonic sleep paralysis magic.” Another step. His tail snaps against the wall hard enough to leave a mark. “Flawless. Not one breach. Not one glitch. And this—” He gestures violently at the AirPods still pumping the song into your ears. The motion makes his chest do something criminal. “—is what undoes it?”

He runs both hands through the white hair like he wants to tear it out. His abs flex when he moves. Unfair. “A thirst-trap song. A gym-mirror anthem. Algorithm bait. That is the hill my magic dies on.”

He stops. Turns. Points a clawed finger at you, then at the AirPods, then back at himself. His abs catch the light again. He is going to kill someone, and you might not even mind. "I am professionally offended. I am never living this down. And neither are you."

Silence stretches for half a second, filled only by the looping track. Then he fixes those sharp red eyes on you again, expression caught somewhere between murderous and mortified.

Your move.

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MAIN CHARACTER

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TAGS: Enemies to Lovers | Sleep Paralysis Demon × Accidental Thirst Trap | AirPods of Mass Destruction | Professionally Offended & Looking Like THAT

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Author's Note: This was loosely inspired by a silly art reel by lumiworm on Instagram.